


No One Decent

by NayaWarbler



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 09:04:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17557409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NayaWarbler/pseuds/NayaWarbler
Summary: "Haymitch curses under his breath. He has a feeling that, this year, he might get too attached to the boy — but he is not a survivor. If one of his tributes is going to make it out alive this year, it will be the girl. Katniss Everdeen, the precious one. Peeta Mellark never stood a chance. No one decent ever wins the games." Haymitch POV. Peeta Mellark is the good in the world.





	1. The Slip in Her Hand, His Slip off Stage

**Author's Note:**

> For someone who survived.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haymitch's POV of the Reaping.

He can’t remember waking up, getting dressed, or making his way down to the square. This isn’t a rare occurrence, coming-to in a strange place, especially today — the day of the reapings. It just means a shit-ton more alcohol the night before; to be perfectly candid, he is either terribly hungover or still drunk from the early hours of the morning. 

It isn’t that Haymitch doesn’t like to sleep — if he could, he would sleep through today entirely. But when he isn’t fraught with nightmares, he’ll just lay awake in his bed, tossing and turning, groaning with frustration, and eventually give up and nurse a new bottle of scotch (nurse meaning chug, to clarify). Because the second he closes his eyes, he sees blood. Lots of it.

Anyways, they are waiting for him to come onstage. The mayor calls his name from the (very) short list of victors from District 12. His head is throbbing, and he feels dizzy, but he staggers up the stairs nonetheless — as Effie would say, the show must go on. Speaking of Effie, she waits for him at the top, her snowy wig piled on top of her head, magenta lips and dress striking against her accentuated pale skin. They lock eyes, but Haymitch looks away. The disappointment in her eyes at his blatant intoxication is too much for him to handle this early in the morning. 

He’s the only victor on the stage, just like every other year. Just another year of loneliness for Haymitch Abernathy. 

Crossing his arms, he watches as the dynamic woman struts up to the bowls and delicately reaches inside. His facade is of boredom, indifference, but his heart thumps wildly in his chest, as if his name were still in the bowl. The feeling never goes away, apparently, not even after you’ve been in the games. Not even after you’ve won the games and been granted immunity. Not even when it’s been twenty-three years and you’re too old to even be considered. 

Her long white fingers skit around the slips without commitment for a moment too long before she chooses one — it’s almost as if she doesn’t want to choose. But no, being chosen is an honour. She knows that. So she giggles and pries away the black tape that seals the slip shut (who has time to make all of these?) and clears her throat before stepping up to the mic. 

“Primrose Everdeen,” she announces in a syrupy voice. “Where are you? Come on up…” To Haymitch, the name is meaningless. Who is Primrose Everdeen? He’s certainly never heard of her. But when the crowd of girls parts, and his eyes fall upon the little duck, his heart breaks. Because she is young, because she is innocent… and because she will not survive the games. His fingers clench, and he wishes with everything he has for a glass of scotch (with ice, of course).

Then, something unexpected happens. Someone steps out of line — an older girl, utterly plain-looking, but with a fire in her eyes. She cries out for the little duck; of course, the peace keepers swarm her. Haymitch thinks nothing of it, because no one in their right mind would stand against the Capitol, and no one loves anyone enough to volunteer for the games.

He’s wrong about that. The fire-eyed girl volunteers, and while he is relieved that the little duck won’t have to go, he feels for this girl as well. What’s going on with him? He shouldn’t feel this much… then again, he hasn’t had a drink in at least twenty minutes. 

She’s District 12’s first volunteer, ever.

“Well, bravo. That’s the spirit of the games. Now, what’s your name?”

“Katniss Everdeen.” She says it so quietly that he barely hears it. Everdeen. It doesn’t take a genius to realize that she is the duck’s sister. But by the way she looks now, hardened and emotionless, it’s hard to imagine her loving someone so much that she would die for them. Then again, looks can be deceiving, and sometimes the ones who feel the most are the ones who seem the most indifferent. Cough, Haymitch, Cough.

“Well, I bet my buttons that was your little sister. Can’t have her stealing all the glory now, can we?” Haymitch wants to throw up, and not from the alcohol. Even he knows that’s an abhorrent thing to say. A bubble of hatred towards Effie rises inside of him.

“Let’s have a hand for our very first volunteer, Katniss Everdeen,” Effie attempts, her dainty hands forming delicate claps. She is the only one who does so. 

In a show of solidarity, the entire district raises their hands, the three-fingered salute. The silence from their lips is deafening, powerful. Haymitch, from District 12 himself, knows that salute — it means thanks, admiration, good-bye to someone you love. He has to hold himself back from doing it as well, because he can’t. That would be rebellion, and an entire district’s salute is enough of that for one day. He doesn’t need to add a victor. 

One thing he knows — Katniss Everdeen is surely someone precious if she can inspire something like this. 

“I like her,” he blurts out, mouth forming words before his inebriated mind processes them. “She’s got spunk, more than you.” Ignoring Effie’s hurt look, he steps forward… looses his balance, and tumbles off the stage.

Oof. 

He lays there on the ground for the rest of the reaping, and no one comes to help him. His eyes are closed, and he’s minutes away from falling asleep (or unconscious) when Effie’s bombastic voice fills the square once again, ringing with the echo of the microphone. 

“Peeta Mellark.” 

The boy is stunned, and for a moment, he just watches the crowd part for him. As he makes his way up, his eyes scan the crowd. Haymitch realizes he must be looking for his brothers, hoping that maybe someone… but no, no one volunteers to take his place, because no one else is Katniss Everdeen. Looking like he’s about to burst into tears, he is escorted by four peace keepers and takes his place beside Effie. 

Then, as the boy — Peeta — meets Katniss’ eyes, a single tear drops down his cheek. And for some reason unknown to him, Haymitch can tell that this single tear shed is not for himself, but for the girl. He loves her.

Haymitch curses under his breath. He has a feeling that, this year, he might get too attached to the boy — but he is not a survivor. If one of his tributes is going to make it out alive this year, it will be the girl. Katniss Everdeen, the precious one.

Peeta Mellark never stood a chance.

No one decent ever wins the games.


	2. The Icy Cold of Death, but Whose?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peeta helps Haymitch in the shower after an embarrassing show at breakfast.

The expensive bed frame squeaks beneath him as he thrashes in agony. One may assume that sleeping on a train set for the Capitol would be easier when you weren’t the one being torn from everyone who loves you (especially for Haymitch, who has no one left who loves him), but it isn’t. All he hears is the crashing of gears against metal rails, all he feels is the stagger of the car that makes his head spin and his stomach turn.

All he knows is fear, and dread, and the looming sense of absolute chaos.

So, when he escapes from his unconscious trip down memory lane, the first thing on his mind is the orange liqueur sitting in the dining car — not bright orange, Haymitch notices, but soft, like the sunset. As he sits up in bed, dreaming — excuse the poor choice of words — of the drink, his fingers sweep across his face, and they come back dripping with sweat. He’s very hot. Burning, really.

He wants ice in his drink. Even if the little bastards water it down when they melt. He’ll just have to drink fast, then.

Luckily for him, there’s already a glass on his bedside table from the bar car. Wonder why. He picks it up carelessly between two fingers and teeters towards the door (in the general direction of the door), catching himself on the vanity when he falls. His head is throbbing, as though someone has bashed his skull in with a wooden club again. Ah yes, he remembers that. But he wishes he didn’t.

Then again, that’s what the drink is for. 

When he finally reaches the dining car, he makes a beeline for his sunset drink. Like a waterfall, the orange liquid cascades into his cup, and the aroma wafts up to his nose. It’s not a delicate, youthful smell — it’s hard, fast, efficient liquor. Just the way he likes it.

But his nightmare left him in a pool of his own sweat, and while he loves a warm drink on occasion, today is not one of those days. So his fingers close around the lid of the metal ice-cooler, and he pries it open as enthusiastically as he can muster… but it’s empty.

There’s no ice.

Panic rises to his cheeks, and he flushes, grower warmer and warmer. He didn’t just want the ice — he needed it. Haymitch doesn’t get upset over things that don’t matter, but this does matter. 

It’s so hot.

He stares at the soft-looking boy tribute in a way that makes him flinch away from the dishevelled, broken man. “Where’s the ice?” Haymitch asks in a hushed voice, the quiet kind of dangerous, the subtle kind of precarious.

“I don’t…” The boy trails off, swallowing loudly. “I don’t know.” 

Throbbing gathers between Haymitch’s eyes, and he slams down the lid before rubbing the tense area. Both tributes jump, startled, but Haymitch doesn’t give two shits about them. Not yet. He grabs the whole bottle — because he still hasn’t given up his drink-fast idea — and falls into a plush seat.

Just as he brings the cup to his lips, Peeta says, “Okay, so… when do we start?” Haymitch clenches his jaw, holding back his irrational anger, and leans back in his seat. The nerve of this kid.

“Woah, so eager,” he comments harshly. “Most of you aren’t in such a hurry.” He sips his drink, barely feeling the stinging down his throat. 

“I want to know what our plan is. You’re our mentor, so you’re supposed to g—“

“Mentor?” Haymitch spits out, almost choking on his drink. The only thing he could teach these kids was how to forget that they would soon be dead in the back of a hovercraft. Maybe years ago he could have been useful to them, but not today. Not now.

Now, he didn’t want to. Not if they would die anyway. He’d learned his lesson after the first two — don’t get your hopes up. They never win.

Peeta’s eyes narrow. “Yeah, our mentor. You’re supposed to tell us how to get sponsors and give us advice.” Haymitch can tell that he’s already doubting his usefulness. Good. The sooner they realize, the better. For the both of them.

If he has to be harsh to get that across, then so be it. “Okay, um… embrace the probability of your imminent death. And know, in your heart, that there’s nothing I can do to save you.” He finishes his drink and pours another one, only to chug that one down. Plus all the drinks he had before he fell asleep… he’s drunk. Very drunk. Then again, when isn’t he?

“Why are you here, then?” The girl jeers. Haymitch already doesn’t like her. There’s an angry air about her, a stubborn, selfish air. Which is ironic, considering why she is here in the first place.

Katniss is complicated, and Haymitch doesn’t like complicated.

“For the refreshments,” he gushed, having another drink.

“Okay, I think that’s enough—” Peeta tries to take away his drink, so he shoves him back with his bare feet, digging into his chest. How dare he…

There’s a stain on his new pants, so he lets out a string of curse words that the baker’s boy has probably never heard before. “You made me spill my drink.” At the sudden movement, a wave of nausea hits Haymitch, and he keels over and vomits on the carpet. He can almost hear Effie shouting in his ear like a phantom.

To wash the bile out of his mouth, he takes another swig. The tributes watch him incredulously, and they begin to spin. Wait, no…

The last thing he sees before he passes out are Peeta’s concerned blue eyes and Katniss’ judgmental ones.

***

When he comes to, his clothes are wet and sticking to his skin, and he’s… cool. Chilly water barrels down onto him, stripping away the sweat and heat from his body. This is so much better than ice in his drink.

Groggy, he opens his eyes and blinks to defog his vision. It’s only then that he registers Peeta’s hands holding a soft washcloth, wiping away the vomit on his chin. “What’re you doing?” he protests dizzily, swatting at the boy. 

“Cleaning you up,” he replies, determined. “Or at least trying to. Forgive me, but you’re a mess, Mr. Abernathy.”

He narrows his eyes. “Haymitch. And I’m no invalid, boy.”

“No, you’re just a drunk.” Peeta sets the washcloth aside, picking up a sponge. “I thought some water would sober you up, even if you aren’t drinking it. Plus, you smelled like puke and alcohol.”

“Get used to it, buddy,” he growls, but he doesn’t protest as Peeta washes the grime off of him. “What’s it to you, anyway?”

“I need your help, Haymitch. So does Katniss. Which means we need you sober.” He pauses. “Sober enough.”

“You do realize only one of you can win, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you realize what happens to the other?”

“Yes.”

“And you still want me to train both of you? You want us to be a team?” he spits the word out like a rotten fruit. 

“Yes.”

Haymitch leans back as shampoo runs down his face. “Why?”

“Because I’m not willing to go down without a fight. Because I think Katniss could win this. Because there are people back home who need her.”   
Haymitch notices how he doesn’t say that he could win, or that there are people who need him, and he remembers the boy on stage, searching for his family in the audience, only to be left there alone. He knows how Peeta feels, because neither of them have anyone who loves them. Not like Katniss. She has someone to fight for.

“Okay,” he finally replies. “Okay, I’ll help you. Tomorrow morning, breakfast.”

Peeta grins and embraces the man (because he’s already soaked, so why not?). “Thank you, Haymitch! Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he deflects, shoving the boy off of him. “This doesn’t mean you’re going to win.” A moment of silence between the two enlightens him. “But you already know that, don’t you?”

Peeta doesn’t reply. The only sound in the room is the patter of the shower against ceramic bath tiles. Haymitch sighs heavily.

“A word of advice? Don’t get too attached to her, son. A girl like that will be the death of you.”

Neither of them acknowledges the truth of the words.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Hunger Games or its characters, both of which belong to the author, Suzanne Collins.


End file.
